Fantasy
by Minikimii
Summary: Latest update: An Attempt to Eat the Bathroom Soap: Zexion is a bad little boy. / "Fantasy" is a Zemyx oneshot collection. More details inside.
1. Index

**INTRODUCTION**

"Fantasy" is a collection of Zemyx oneshots that are essentially all experiments with style and content. Be prepared to find anything slightly weird in either idea or voice or even presentation. Most every piece placed in this collection is a separate story on its own or some sort of combination of ideas I just can't fit into my other stories. It's not the shit though, just the excess filling. My fondest hope for this story is that you won't write this off as a waste of time. Because the main focus of this collection is to bring something different in with every story, if you don't like one piece, you might like another.

Stay around and enjoy a drink or two?

_Bisous, Minikimii_

**Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts belongs to Square Enix.**

* * *

**INDEX**

**Fantasy**  
Summary: When he's asleep, his mind wanders.  
Rating: M (Content)

**Not Your Exotic, Not Your Erotic**  
Summary: You listen to his words at the coffee shop.  
Rating: T (Language)

**Sweet**  
Summary: Caramel Apple Pops are an addiction.  
Rating: K+  
(Note: Sister fic to Not Your Exotic, Not Your Erotic)

**Two Cups of Coffee**  
Summary: He never touches the second cup.  
Rating: K+

**Delicious, Delicious Love  
**Summary: A crackfic song about 'cuppy-cuppycakes' and Princess Zexion.  
Rating: T (References)

**Raison d'être  
**Summary: Because, really, sometimes he just... He just is.  
Rating: M (Language, Content, References)

**Not Watching  
**Summary: Because if this becomes a regular thing, it will be a problem.  
Rating: K+ (Slight Sexuality)

**An Attempt to Eat the Bathroom Soap**  
Summary: Zexion is a dirty little boy.  
Rating: M (Trigger warning: Child Abuse)

**Deliquesce  
**Summary: A moment on a beach.  
Rating: K+


	2. Fantasy

**Summary**: When he's asleep, his mind wanders.  
This came to me just as I was falling asleep a few nights ago. Gods, I must be on something, epesically since I'm posting a oneshot instead of updating 4C or something. This is different the fanfics I usually write in the sense that it's darker in mood. I guess it's more like my original fics? Anyways, please enjoy my experimentation with a different writing style.

* * *

**Fantasy**

Lightless – everything sans luminescence, mocking and taunting in the cover of shadows.

Voiceless – nothing filled the empty void, no waves and no vibrations.

Nameless – an utter loss as for how to react, how to label what cannot be given a title.

But not faceless.

**_More…_**

Slight recognition, yet unable to fully perceive.

**_More… _**

Illumination, tanned planes of smooth, uninterrupted and nearly unmarred epidermis.

**_More…_**

Oceanic scent, calming and languid, slipping around the senses like a gentle blanket.

**_More…_**

Warmth, radiance – more than deserved and more than ever asked for.

**_More…_**

However, it remains anonymous.

**_Do you want more of this?_**

No longer soundless, the voice whispers. However, it is just a sound; it's nothing to be afraid of.

Of what?

But the touches start, brushing teasing. A single chuckle and a retreat follow.

**_This…_**

This?

Suddenly, a pressing sensation to the back and a brushing against the chest. Movement. Slight tremble, but not from the outward source, but from inward emotions, stirring.

Do you mean this?

**_Perhaps._**

Again, the touches, brushing and slowly heating. Smooth skin sliding up the legs, forming into an arm and a hand that brushed up and around, encircling and cupping one cheek.

**_Like…_**

Unfinished, the voice becomes recognizable, soothing even. Sheets solidify and create substance. And there it is: the friction. That and more heat.

**_Do you like this?_**

Do I?

Heated pressure from above, gravity does its job well. Physics apply now, but what of chemistry? Of biology? Squirm a little and the grip tightens. One sharp breath inward and the tickling of stray hairs from stray bangs on torso. Biology undoubtedly present in the nerve endings. Keratin - this confirms chemistry.

**_I think you do._**

Maybe you're right. Maybe.

**_Of course I am._** It chuckled. **_Now tell me... what of this?_**

Dim lighting, blond strands. Nerves heighten awareness of warm, hard metal against chests. Small, round half-rings. Piercing on the nipple - on both, actually. Rubs and teases, stroking, laughing.

Laughing? Yes, laughing and taunting.

**_Is it so wrong to show emotion?_**

Perhaps.

**_It's not bad. I'll teach you._**

More touching. Responses. Hands move closer to the center, one digit constantly teases. A small slip. Another small slip. One last slip with the sudden presence of lube. Easy slips, suddenly, uneven surface both top and bottom. More heat, a pressure between legs, a pressure between two sets of legs. Another finger: more lubricant.

**_Better safe than sorry. Wouldn't want to damage you._**

I'd hope not. I rather like my body.

Other hand materializes, dragging nails lightly downward. Down, down, further, farther. Ribbons of sensation and another sound to enjoy. Heated circles of breath on hip. Soft skin on smooth skin, skim of the nose and nip of the teeth.

**_You do feel._**

Is that not expected?

**_No, not really._**

Another laugh and those lips trail down. Brighten the lights, but only fractionally. Clear eyes shine and blond bangs obscure only mildly.

When did color arrive?

Breath hitches as lips trail southward. Uneven smile upon even skin, lick, nibble, suck, bite. Move more, move lower, closer, closer…

And a kiss.

And a lick.

**_Make that sound again._**

'That sound?'

A harder touch and a knuckle curves, brushes against a spot inside, pleasure brimming from the spot. The murmur of soft lips against groin, testing fresh, uncharted waters.

Ahh-!

**_Yes, that sound._**

A fervent touch, no holding back. Lips, skilled; tongue, eager. Wrapping wholly, engulfing.

Ahh!!

Forward, cover more and create heat. Create pleasure. Blue eyes shining with mischief. Tip to the edge, yet retreat once more; so close, so far.

I know who you are.

**_Good for you._**

Feather light trails back up the torso, a whisper against a pulse in the neck, incoherent. Teeth sink into flesh, drawing no blood, only pleasured noises from the base of the throat.

What do you _want_?

**_What do I not want?_**

Heavy breaths, labored pants. Sliding, slipping, gripping; hold on, let go. Reposition and entrance; slow, steady – there's no race to win.

And hand slipping through lilac hair, musically whimsical. Curved fingers encircle and massage, sensuous touches to the head, a tip in for another kiss.

Lick and slip; tongue against tongue.

Why me?

**_We balance each other._**

Dance between the bed sheets, press and grind. Piercings rubbing against soft, virgin skin, tempting and succumbing to the incubus to create friction.

Is this real?

**_Do you want it to be?_**

Repositioned bodies, hand roaming. Lifting of the lower body, hot and sweating. Enter and adjust; it's surprisingly painless. Movement, repetition, familiarity: essential to a useless action. A growth in speed and strength. Potent cries, and the digging of nails into skin. Flesh beneath fingers, grappling for a hold on reality, on emotions, on life, on the intangible, on–

Why ask what I want?

**_Because you won't do it yourself._**

- -

Zexion woke with a start, body thoroughly hot and bothered. Propping his body up on his elbows, he looked to the large book of enchantments he had open on the desk. Around him, the white walls of Oblivion Library stared back blankly, oblivious to his state of mind.

The inside of his cloak drenched in sweat, the young Nobody stood up and attempted walking away. The growing discomfort between his legs begged otherwise and Zexion was barely able to cut open a dark tear from the fabric of space and the physical to his room.

Once inside, he sat on his bed, contemplating what exactly to do about his 'problem'. Settling for the obvious answer, he unzipped his cloak and slipped out of its somewhat damp constricts. Laying down on purple and black sheets, he begins and finishes with only one thought in his mind.

_**Demyx…**_

* * *

If this didn't make sense to you, here's a clue: wet dream.

The whole time I was writing this, I had to listen to two cats battle it out for the fourth time this week in my backyard. Dear Lord. D:  
Anyways, this was honestly fun to try my hand at. I spent a few hours on this so hopefully it passes inspection. It meant for it to feel... well, I'm sure you can tell what I meant for it to feel like. Tell me what you think. :)

_Bisous, Minikimii_


	3. Not Your Exotic, Not Your Erotic

Disclaimer: The poem 'Not Your Exotic, Not Your Erotic' from which this piece is inspired by is not mine, but belongs to Suheir Hammad. I simply tweaked a few words to fit gender.  
**Summary**: You listen to his words at the coffee shop.

* * *

**Not Your Exotic, Not Your Erotic**

You just come here for a cup of coffee. Every night, lonely artists wander their way in, enticed by the simple colors or the soft stage lights for the small platform in the back of the room. Glass windows are the walls of their world, and so they look. They look and sit and dream and write. They write and you just sit there to take it all in, in, in, in to your system like the coffee that you never touch but only inhale because it's 10 at night; you know you want to wake up early in the morning. It's always that smooth, rippling, ethnic beat that pulls you in. The words on the page aren't nearly as delicious as the sounds the human vocal box makes.

Mother always said you couldn't taste the cookie by reading the recipe.

So you wait there, watching with disconnected content. It's Friday night and, while your coworkers are all out partying, getting drunk at some godforsaken strip club, you're here. You're here, listening to the simplest sounds of human nature winding their ways out of the intricate mazes that imitate the patterns of their creators' brains. Sometimes it's when your coffee starts to get cold. Sometimes, it before you've ordered you cup and sometimes, just sometimes, it's right when you need it as bad as you ever and always do. Sometimes, that man enters and suddenly the stage isn't a stage anymore. It isn't just the flat wood with a single barstool for when the performers get tired (and it's not just mildly-sore-tired, but all-hell's-broken-loose-tired). That 'stage' transforms and it becomes a blank canvas accompanied by a set of clear, shimmering prismatic paints that seem to be every color and none all at once.

You watch as the man's two friends greet him at the small table by the stage, clapping him on the back, laughing for a few moments at a humorous incident on the train, or even buying him a drink to sit down and talk for a few. And you just sit there, admiration glowing softly from your eyes as he pulls the latest scrap of paper, napkin, or fast food paper bag from his back pocket and smooths it out on the table. His friend might reach across to catch a glimpse of he might just slip the paper over as quick and easily as habit allows him. The nervous buzzing in your stomach settles in and you can feel the way your leg taps against the floor in anticipation.

(Is part of that jealousy?)

So you wait, tapping the edge of your coffee cup as it cools, tapping it like a metronome keeping with the beat of your mind, the pounding of your bones as you memorize every detail of that mysterious man. The hour passes slowly, nothing has changed. He ordered soup and you wonder vaguely if perhaps you should order the same thing as well.

So you do. Simple corn cheddar chowder is, has always been, and always will be warm enough so that you'll remove your scarf to slip into something more physically intangible, like comfort or security. You wrestle out of your jacket and drape it on the seat that was opposite you two hours ago. Then you set to work at enjoying the food.

You look up from the steam of the liquid just in time to catch him facing you so he flashes a slight facial twitch of recognition in your direction. He's here every week when you are so you wouldn't be surprised if he knew your name. You start to wonder just how much as he recognized you. What feature of your plainly unattractive body has he taken a liking to? Maybe your hair is just memorable, because after all, not everyone has strands the color of lilac-tinted moonsilk.

The cream from the soup distracts you as you take in another spoonful, a rare smile coming to your lips as you realize the waiter knows by now what temperature you enjoy your foods to be served at. As the end of the simple white bowl is only a few inches away from your line of sight, he takes the stage. The café falls into silence as they await his newest creation, and suddenly it dawns on you:

They love him too.

And not because they love him, but because he loves words, he will deliver.

"Don't wanna be your exotic, like some dark, fragile, colorful bird imprisoned, caged in a land foreign to the stretch of his wings."

The first line cuts through you like a simple, sharp metal wire through a block of clay. It parts out a piece of you and leaves it laying on the side of the table, waiting for relentless gravity to smoosh it down again or, perhaps, for the air to take it and crack it until there is nothing beyond now.

"Don't wanna be your exotic. Men everywhere look just like me. Some taller, nicer, darker than me, but like me. Just the same.  
"Everywhere, carrying my nose on their faces, my name on their spirits."

You know they don't but admitting that would contradict the sacred vibrations that come off the sounds of the poem.

"Don't seduce yourself with my 'other'-ness. My hair wasn't put atop my head to entice you into some mysterious, dark voodoo."

It's irrational how you think every word that comes out his lips is contradicting his image. Looking down at his hands, covered in gloves that cut off at the fingers and what appears to be a fresh band-aid on his left thumb, you see that this week, it's a receipt from a movie rental.

"The beat of my lashes against each other ain't some dark desert beat. It's just a blink. Get over it."

He pauses, smiles, blinks. Chuckles ripple through the crowd and you can't help but smile at his delivery this week. They'll be rushing to compliment him before he knows what's good for him. But he always knows what's good for him, like words and food and smiles and laughter and tears and love and acceptance. How do you know this? You listen.

"Don't build around me your fetish, fantasy, your lustful profanity to cage me in, clip my wings."

He looks straight at you, his blue eyes sparkling playfully, but only for a split second. You blink twice to check your vision but he has already moved on.

"Don't wanna be your exotic."

You let out a small, amused breath when his eyes lock with yours as he delivers this line.

"Your lovin' of my beauty ain't more than funky fornication, plain pink perversion. In fact, nasty necrophilia, because my beauty is dead to you."

Your lips and mind are enraptured, moving on the own as he continues his ramble-rant off of words and the subtle sway of his hips back and forth across the crowd as he glances across his audience. The music that had been playing in the background is shut off to make room for breaths of worshipping silence.

He chuckles faintly, his gaze falling far behind you and at the wall that sits there. You know he's tracing the lines edges Georgia O'Keefe's white petals with his eyes, visually caressing their softness as he continues, lowering the intonation of his voice when he sighs.

"I am dead to you."

The room takes a unified breath and exhales together. You find yourself pleasantly unsurprised that you have also followed suit. You don't run with the crowd... but neither do his words. Then he notices your expression locks eyes with you again, smiling, and he breathes in a deep breath before continuing:

"Not your harem boy, geisha doll, banana picker, pompom boy, poom poom short coffee maker…"

You can feel him dissecting you now. You can feel his eyes tracing the pattern of the hair falling across your face and the angle of your jawbone and the way your hands are gripping the coffee cup so you stay still and you stay quiet and you stay frozen and you stay.

"… town whore, belly dancer, private dancer, lamalenche,Venus, hot-n-tot laundry boy, immaculate vessel, emasculating prince."

Even though his face is calm, his eyes still shimmer happily, taking their sweet time as he drags on the last line as far as a string of silence will go.

"Don't wanna be... Not your Erotic, Not your Exotic."

He exits the stage to a standing ovation. You can't help but get up this time either, and you don't know if it's because he looked at you or if it's because he _looked_ at you. Later that night, just as you are about to leave, he introduces himself as Demyx. You sit back down to indulge both him and yourself, somewhat embarrassed by the fact that he recognizes you (of all people, honestly!) as the one who stays for only his poetry, never for anyone else's. The conversation falls deeper into the night as the two of you share a slice of cheesecake and lines of art that dribble in inspirational drop from your mouths.

So next week, he comes back with a new poem and opens by telling the audience how hard it is to find a word that rhymes with 'Zexion'.

* * *

What do you think? I usually get my greatest inspiration after watching Def Poetry Jam on YouTube. You guys should check it out. Major contrast between oneshot styles, no? Hope you enjoyed it! Reviews are loved. :3

_Bisous, Minikimii_


	4. Sweet

Summary: Caramel Apple Pops are an addiction.

* * *

**Sweet**

You can't really taste the candy anymore. It's almost like a cross between a comfort food and a nasty habit that tends to spring up as your artistic inspiration hits. It feels so familiar on your tongue that all you really experience are the memories; the words, the feel, the smells, the sounds, the sights and the way each pop is different, every pop is identical, and sometimes some pops seem similar. Those similarities make your mind wander.

It's like how the one you've just finished before you get on stage and recite your latest poem reminds you of the that time you sat on the park bench waiting for your best friend, Axel, to come pick you up. You sat in the rain and watched the cars splash puddles onto your should-have-been-dry shoes impassively. That was the day you realized the world revolves like a carousal – like a larger-than-life, repetitive ride that makes your head spin until you think that you've seen the same vehicle go by five times in the last minute.

(In truth, that model of car probably has. In an overstuffed world of technology, nothing is remotely unique anymore.)

You sat in the rain and watched the droplets fall in giant puddles until you were sure naiads could inhabit the small pool. Without thinking, you pulled a caramel apple pop out of your pocket and slipped the candy into your mouth. The caramel was a bit thin at the edges and folded easily once it reached your tongue, like the pop you had last time you went swimming.

The sunshine was blinding (it's _always_ blinding) and you were forced to carry three pops in your hands because of the summer swimwear. Once again, the same best friend who picked you up from the park was there to watch you pop another caramel-covered treat into your mouth. He christened you "Demyx, the prolific caramel connoisseur" and dunked you into the pool. Soon after, he was pulled in with you while he openly pondered why you didn't seem to gain weight from habitually ingesting sugar by the pound. Of course, neither does he, so you silently came to the conclusion that both of your metabolisms are scientific wonders.

After swimming for a good hour and a half, you finally wrinkled open the wrapper of the second of the three pops you'd brought with you. Your best friend looked to you at that opportune moment, his spiky red hair settling into languid locks that stuck to the sides of his head, and asked you for one. That's when you're forced to share your back up with your best friend because he knew you could never say no to him. He always exploits that weakness for your candy.

The caramel on this one was slightly warm from sitting in the sun and already melted all to the right side, like the pop you had that time you were grocery shopping.

Awkward encounters with people you recognize from your work or from the café you frequent always make you giddy with a spastic yet nonplussed embarrassment. It's strange to think about people in everyday settings, living their lives that probably aren't much different from yours. Suddenly, they become more human.

In retrospect, it was rather entertaining to watch the recognition and embarrassment pass over that particular silver-haired man's face. You know him from the café, the one who sits in the back of the room away from the large glass windows and only stays to watch you perform. Axel jokingly calls him your biggest fan.

It became a memorable exchange the moment you began to approach him for a chat. He quickly ducked behind the multigrain breads as if you were some grisly axe-murderer coming to eat his children (which is laughable considering exactly how un-Herculean your physique is).

With a chuckle, you pull out a somewhat oddly shaped caramel-covered treat from your pocket and drop it into his shopping cart. Maybe next time he won't act like your advance was some intimidating, awkward broach beyond the bounds of social normality. It's a shame that you left the pop behind though. You'd had your hand closed around the thing in anticipation for so long that you'd moved all of the caramel from one half of the pop to the other with your heated palm.

Still, the fact that you left this piece of candy behind reminds you of the lollipop you had last time you were at the video rental shop.

Nothing special in particular happened regarding the pop itself, because it wasn't the actual candy, but what happened because of it that really meant anything. You almost ate the pop until some random, lecherous guy came up to you and plucked the white stick from your fingertips. Looking across the establishment, you could see his friends egging him, abetting him, on as he attempted the impossible mission of retrieving your number. Unfortunately, he didn't know that anyone who messed with your candy couldn't get out unscathed.

The moment he stole your candy and began enjoying what should have been _yours_, you went off on him about how he shouldn't have been randomly taking things out from stranger's hands, how you weren't just some goal for him to objectify, that with all of his blatantly flirtatious remarks about your "individuality" and "mystique" his effort was lost on you.

Surprisingly, the incident prompted you to write another poem. As usual, the words flow freely to your mind, but this time they come in waves that broke down all the encumbering artist blocks that have plagued you of late. Before you realize what you've done, as you frantically scribble the words down onto the back of your video rental receipt, another caramel apple pop finds its way into your mouth.

The same thing happens today just before you're on the café stage again. The minute preceding your time slot for present yourself to the usual crowd, you finished off the latest pop from your pocket. As soon as you step onto the platform, you begin reciting the poem from the video rental receipt sans microphone. The man from the supermarket is in the back, watching at you like you're some sort of demigod. You trace his surroundings with your eyes until the lines finally lead you to his face. Without breaking the mood, you end with a graceful finish and exit from the spotlight.

It's funny because just before you dig into a slice of cheesecake Axel bought you, you can see the silver-haired man from before fingering the worn wrapped candy in his left pocket.

(Maybe you should talk to him.)

* * *

So this pairs with Not Your Erotic, Not Your Exotic, obviously. :) I personally don't think it's as great as Zexion's version, but I rather like it still.

_Bisous, Minikimii_


	5. Two Cups of Coffee

Summary: He never touches the second cup.  
This was inspired by a short het oneshot manga which is also called "Two Cups of Coffee", by Young-Eun Nam. Hope you don't mind the format. :)  
(http:// www. youtube. com/watch?v=TVOeeZAOHgc)

* * *

**Two Cups of Coffee**

Zexion  
A regular at Kingdom Hearts. He always goes on Saturday nights with a good book and lots of cash in his pocket. He has a massive, unsatiable craving for caffiene and Demyx's muffins. Is also known to Demyx as "Bookworm". Has lilac-gray hair with long bangs that falls across his face obscuring his blue eyes and hair that gradually becomes shorter as it nears the back of his head.

Demyx  
A waiter and cook at Kingdom Hearts, managed by his cousin Xigbar. Often found singing under his breath while he works and isn't engaged in conversation. Because Zexion always pays in cash, Demyx does not know him by name. Demyx has an extremely amenable personality, and is therefore an easily taught and laregely capable, precocious student of Xigbar's cuisine-related expertise. He loves baking almost as much as he loves music – which is actually his life's calling. Physically, Demyx has blond hair which is often found with the top half styled in a vertical waves on his head.

Xigbar  
Over confident and loud, he is our story's narrator. Xigbar is approximately a decade older than Demyx and is known best for his prematurely graying ponytail and excellent service. He has managed the food-related aspect of the Kingdom Hearts Café since its inception. Dispite his easy-going demeanor, he has a high criterion standard all his employees must meet.

* * *

Scene One

_There is a countertop with four barstools positioned around it center stage. Two cofee tables are seen off toward stage left. A solo light is cast on Xigbar, who stands behind the counter. He is seen unfolding what can be assumed is his work uniform. A soft, jazzy tune plays in the background of the scene, serving to create a relaxed, café atmosphere._

Xigbar [_to audience as he slips on the last part of his uniform_]: I'd like to say that first off, as much as I love my cousin, I find that he's quite the thick-skulled idiot at times.

_[Now a blond man (Demyx) is seen entering behind the counter and presumably cleaning the utensils while humming along with the __extranuous__ background music._

I don't think he realizes what it is that happens every week, but I'm sure that somewhere under that thick skull of his, he knows what happens every time that bloke walks through the door and-

[_Suddenly, Demyx looks up strangely at Xigbar._]

Demyx: Xiggy, who are you talking to?

Xigbar: No one, Dem-Dem. Now get back to work.

[_Demyx sulks, morale __depleted__, and goes back to cleaning._]

[_in a hushed voice:_] Now, I want you all to know that Demyx… _changes _whenever this guy walks in. Watch as our hero's attitude changes with the simple breeze of wind that enters along with his little Bookworm.

_[The full stage is lit mildly. A bells tinkles faintly and Zexion is seen entering from stage left and taking a seat at the coffee table furthest away from the counter.]_

Demyx [_calls over nervously_]: The usual?

[_Zexion nods and returns his attention to his book._ _Demyx begins to prepare the coffee. He has stopped humming and is obviously watching Zexion out of the corner of his eye. He soon finishes making two cups and brings them along with six muffins – five wrapped in a bag, one on a napkin – to his customer._]

Zexion [_short and formal_]: Thanks. [_He hands money for the food to Demyx._]

Demyx [_quietly_]: No problem…

[_He picks up one coffee cup and begins to sip the contents, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. Demyx lingers, but minds his own business. Another two people walk into the café. Demyx takes their orders quickly and soon goes back to hovering near Zexion._]

Xigbar: Watch closely now. You don't want to miss this…

[_Zexion puts down his book and simply gazes toward the audience, his attention resting on a spot somewhere above their heads._]

Demyx [_murmurs to himself_]: He's doing it again, gazing out the window. He just won't touch that second cup of coffee.

Xigbar: Hey, Dem, get back to work. I'm not paying you to sit around all day with that jejune look on your face.

Demyx: Y-yessir!

[_After anotherfew moments, Zexion gets up and leaves, taking the bag of muffins with him but leaving the second cup of coffee at his table, untouched. Demyx is seen heading over to the table to clean up. The lights go out and a single light falls upon Xigbar once more. This time, he is positioned stage right. _]

Xigbar: It's like this every time; he never finishes the second cup.

* * *

Scene Two

_The lights fall upon the entire stage once more in a dim glow. Although not much brighter, Xigbar and Demyx are seen illuminated by a brighter, but not blinding, spotlight. They sit together at the table Zexion occupied earlier, each of them nursing their own cups of coffee._

Xigbar: Why haven't you started talking to Bookworm yet? I know it bothers you that you don't know the name of your baking's biggest fan, but something's gotta give. You're like this every night when we close up – you just mope around and it drives me nuts!

Demyx [_indignantly_]: I do not _mope_!

[_Xigbar laughs humorlessly._]

Xigbar: Oh, yes you do! If you don't go and talk to him soon, I will! And believe me, there will be mass psychological infirmity on your part afterward.

Demyx [_moans_]: Please don't…

Xigbar: You _know_ I will. Now suck it up, Princess, and ask for his name already! We'll see how it goes tomorrow when he shows up like usual.

[_Demyx simply sulks __obdurately__ once more as he rises and throws away his empty coffee. Xigbar gets up as well and the lights dim to black, illuminating only Xigbar sitting at the coffee table._]

Honestly. Demyx has been wanting to befriend the guy for ages now. I just don't get why he won't get up and do it already. It's not like Bookworm's intimidating or anything – they're practically the same height. [_He sighs._] I guess it's just some sort of fatal disease of his or something…

_[Xigbar sighs and stands up. The lights dim to darkness.]_

* * *

Scene Three

_The stage is set identically to Scene One, except this time, Zexion is already seated at the same table as before, sipping one cup of coffee (with only one muffin), the other sitting across from him as he reads. Demyx hovers behind him, pretending to clean the floor. Xigbar is behind the counter, drying cups._

Xigbar [_to audience_]: He's been like that for the last hour since Bookworm walked in. He won't say a single word to the man… it's like he suddenly can't use his tongue.

[_Zexion looks up at him and Demyx suddenly stops cleaning. Demyx rushes over to Xigbar._]

Demyx: I-I need… I need to use the r-restroom!

[_He flees stage right before getting a response. Zexion looks up briefly then resumes his reading._]

Xigbar: Hey, Dem, get back here! [_To audience_:] See? He's a whimp. [_He turns toward Zexion and approaches his table, taking the seat across from him._] Hey, you. What's your name?

Zexion: [_Sets his book down and looks up._] Is it of grave importance that you know my identity?

Xigbar: No, I'm just curious.

Zexion: I do not tell random strangers my name.

Xigbar: You're a regular at my café, so I'm not a stranger.

Zexion: I don't talk to you; you're a stranger.

Xigbar: We're talking right now.

Zexion: Touché.

[_A moment of awkward silence follows._]

So will you continue speaking or must I berate your social skills to force words from your lips?

Xigbar: [_laughing_] No, that will not be necessary. I want to talk to you about Demyx.

Zexion: The waiter?

Xigbar: Yes, him.

Zexion: What about him?

Xigbar: He wants to know exactly whom it is that seems to always buy his muffins in bulk. No one else seems to be able to afford it on a weekly basis by the half dozen, you know? Kingdom Hearts isn't exactly a cheap café, so the weekly muffin binges and wasted cup of coffee only add to your mystery.

Zexion [_amused_]: I'm mysterious?

Xigbar: Very much so, I'm afraid.

Zexion: And you want answer to this mystery?

Xigbar: It would be appreciated.

Zexion: [_He chuckles_.] Well, I can tell you my name is Zexion, but that will be all. As for the coffee, I will let you and your waiter figure that one out.

Xigbar: Fair enough, Zexion.

Zexion: Xigbar. [_He nods politely._]

Xigbar: You know my name?

Zexion: I'm more observant than you think.

[_Xigbar returns to drying cups behind the counter while Demyx re-enters from stage right. Zexion has resumed his reading and is now eating his muffin. Xigbar is strangely silent and seemingly ignores Demyx's presence._]

Demyx: Xiggy?

Xigbar: What?

Demyx: Are you mad at me?

Xigbar: No.

Demyx: Okay… [_To himself_:] What? No bothering me about Bookworm?

[_Demyx is seen cleaning again on stage. After a full minute of silence and Demyx humming to the jazz playing, Zexion stands up and exits stage left, the second cup of coffee untouched. The lights darken and go out._]

* * *

Scene Four

_The café is mostly empty save for Demyx slouching behind the counter. Xigbar is nowhere to be seen._

Demyx [_to himself_]: I can't believe Xigbar's sick. I'm just lucky we hardly get anyone in today. I don't know what I would've done if he was gone on one of our heavy days…

[_A lightly tinkling bell sounds and Zexion suddenly enters stage left, taking a seat at his usual spot. Demyx quickly straightens his posture._]

Demyx [_calls over nervously_]: The usual?

[_Zexion nods and openshis book._ _Demyx prepares the coffee and soon finishes making two cups and brings them to Zexion._]

Zexion [_short and formal_]: Thanks. [_He hands money for the food to Demyx._]

Demyx [_quietly_]: No problem…

[_The two are silent for a time. Demyx slowly grows jittery and begins bouncing his leg impatiently as he hangs around on one of the barstools. He suddenly gets up and meekly approaches Zexion._]

Demyx [_nervous_ly]: H-hi, I'm Demyx.

[_Zexion sets his book down._]

Zexion: Well met. My name is Zexion. Please, Demyx, sit down.

[_Demyx looks around him and, after a brief moment of decision, shrugs and takes a seat._]

Demyx: Aren't you waiting for someone?

Zexion: Yes. [_Zexion pushes the coffee toward him._] Please, have a drink.

* * *

Okay, so I'll be making a similar announcement in the author's notes of _Call Me_, but I thought I'd make it here first and then transfer it over there:  
Between the dates of June 15 to June 24, 2009, I'll be at U.C. Berkeley attending a Forensic Science program. If anyone else is going, I'd love to hear from you! Message me, please? :)

_Bisous, Minikimii_

P.S. I still need a roommate. :3


	6. Delicious, Delicious Love

**Summary**: A crackfic song about 'cuppy-cuppycakes' and Princess Zexion.

Pretty much this entire thing was started about... seven months ago. I had two lines written and had meant to post this by 09-09-09, but never got to it. Then, in a random bout of "oh... I should probably update _Fantasy"_ I decided to complete this.

The end product? The kind of crack my whore of a muse gives birth to at 2:05am in the morning. Hope you guys like it.

(Now think "YouTube".)

* * *

Delicious, Delicious Love

Demyx—a.k.a. "Melodious Nocturne"—smiles brightly and the sound from the after-pressings of a record button rattle into the microphone.

"Hey, guys!" He waves to the camera and the few ungelled hairs that hang over his forehead bobble to the beat of his words. "The date is September 6th, 2009—our three year anniversary as some of you know—and today I'd like to re-introduce you to my boyfriend, Zexion!"

The camera turns and a slate-haired twenty-something-year-old groans and pushes the lenses away.

"Gods, Demyx, could you put that infernal thing away while I'm studying? We have exams in four weeks and you should be starting on your classes."

A laugh sounds from behind the camera and the shaky camera view changes to stable with the sound of plastic on wood. From the left of the video box, the blond enters the scene, guitar in hand and fake mustache glued to his upper lip.

"But I wrote a song for you, my love. Please, have a listen!"

Zexion laughs humorlessly, his eyes still focused on his textbooks and what looks like a hand-written draft of an essay. Around him, papers are stacked into organized chaos about the dorm room's shoddy desk—no doubt a product of Demyx's chronic inability to organize.

"If you'll shut up and study like the no-doubt intellectual student your parents think you are, then I'll humor you for just a few moments." Demyx claps happily and readies his guitar. "BUT! Only a few moments. When the song is over," he turns and glares toward the lenses, "that _thing_ turns _off_."

"Alright," Demyx chuckles. "Whatever you say, _Princess Zexion_."

The man rolls his one visible eye as the his boyfriend bounces back and forth on the bed dancing to an unheard beat as he settles his capo on the strings.

"Ready?"

"Unfortunately."

Demyx turns so his body is angled toward both the camera and Zexion. He begins plucking at individual strings before he speaks, setting a cute—because, quite frankly, nothing else could describe it—melody for the intro of the song.

"I call this 'If My Love For You Were As Delicious'."

Zexion groans lightly, the flickers of a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. "Oh, Lord..."

_"Oh, if my love for you were as delicious, as delicious as sea salt ice cream... How lovely our kitchen would be!_

_"Oh, if my love for you were as delicious, as delicious as Paopu fruit candies... How lovely our snacking would be!"_

"Really, Dem?" Zexion smirks during a short instrumental. "Oh, this is going to be wonderful..."

The blond simply smiles back and continues to serenade his paramour with his "Minstrel Voice".

_"Oh, if my love for you were as delicious, as delicious as edible candy apple lotion... How lovely our foreplay would be!_

_"Oh if my love for you were as delicious, as delicious as strawberry condoms... How lovely our fellatio would be!"_

Zexion's eyes grew wide as his boyfriend's voice began rising in pitch and volume, growing into the internet-famous spectacular tenor he was known for."D-Demyx... You—"

_"OH! IF. MY. Looooooooooooooove for you were like a cuppy-cuppycake, filled with smooth white, creamy thick cheam-crease based frosting; creamy, thick, and white like the things we lick off of each others' bodies..._

_"I think our life would be most delicious!"_

"Demyx, please..." Zexion holds his head in his hands as the blond gleefully fingers out more chords and spontaneous pluckings of the strings. "Why do I put up with this?"

_"If my love for you were as delicious, so delicious it could power a third-world country... How lovely our reward sex would be!_

_"If my love for you were as delicious, so delicious it could spawn a mufcake war... How lovely the carnage would be!_

_"If my love for you were as delicious, so delicious we could live off sexual energy... How chaffed our privates would be!_

Meanwhile, Zexion's face burns red and he topples over on the bed, burrying his head in a pillow. Upon closer inspection, his diaphragm hops in staccato bursts—laughter.

_"OH! IF. MY. Looooooooooooooove for you were like a cuppy-cuppycake, filled with smooth white, creamy thick cheam-crease based frosting; creamy, thick, and white like the things we lick off of each others' bodies..._

_"I think our life would be most delicious!"_

The music swells into a jovial swing, and Demyx begins to belt out the la-la-la's like Nobody's business, and his body grooves back and forth to the beat he taps out with his bell-strung right foot. The light squeaks from the bed springs in their mattress (which is obviously 'theirs' because the top bunk is filled with stuffed animals) crescendo lightly before falling silent.

_"But don't you see?" _Demyx asks, a Capella and aching with unreleased laughter, _"My lovely, my sexy little Princess Zexy?"_

"N-no," the slate-haired male manages from his position under the pillow. "Quite... q-uite frankly I don—"

_"My love for you is MORE delicious! More delicious than all the cheam-crease-based frosting!_

_"My love for you is MORE delicious! More delicious than all the cuppy-cuppycakes!_

_"My love for you is MORE delicious! More delicious than all the strawberry condoms!_

_"My love for you is MORE delicious! More delicious than all the mufcake war carnage!_

He stops and plucks three carefully-chosen notes from his guitar, muttering under his breath, "But not as delicious as how you taste against my lips at night..."

From under the blanket, Zexion coughs awkwardly and the foot-tappings against the dorm-room floor fall silent.

_"My love, my Love, is so much more," _Demyx bellows. _"Oh, it's so. Much. MORE!"_

The blond takes in a giant breath, and suddenly breaks out in his classic, broadway-toned stage voice.

_"I love you so much! Oh, I Love You So Much..._

_"I LOVE YOU SO MUCH LET'S STOP SINGING AND FUCK!"_

He grins his classic cocky grin and leans toward the camera. A series of taps of plastic buttons against fingertips follow, but the audio capture continues to roll on.

In the darkness, amongst the fake-moans, there is a single sound. A singular...

"Oh, _Zexion,_ YES! _YES!_"

And silence.

- -

_"I can't believe you did that on camera."_

_"I can't believe you put up with it."_

_"… You know I'm in love with you and your voice; I'd never stop you in the middle of a song either."_

_"Really, now?"_

_"R-really..."_

_"And that's because?"_

_"Because I love you, you ignoramus."_

_"__Aww, Zexy. I love you too. Now shut up and kiss me."_

_"N-no...ooo...ooohh..."_

* * *

And how did I find the inspiration to write this crack of a song? From a conversational snippet my lovely wifey Nitlon wrote to me in the beginning of our friendship:

"But the carnage of a cupcake-muffin war would be DELICIOUS. And you know if a cupcake and a muffin made secret forbidden love that would also produce delicious, delicious offspring."

... Shut up. You love me.

_Bisous, Minikimii_


	7. Raison d'être

**Summary: **Because, really, sometimes he just... He just is.

On a random note, I'm really starting to regret converting chapter one into an Index. Oh well. I'm sure it's helped at least one person out. :/

* * *

Raison d'être

There's always been a little something broken.

And it's not always obvious either. Hah. Like when he was ten and that asshat of a neighbor kid came and blew the head off his little sister's Barbie doll and he spent the next few months saving up all the change he could find around the house and on the sidewalk so he could help her dollie restoration fund.

Yeah. Like that, but worse.

And like the time when he was thirteen and those fucktards in PE called him a girl because of his slight frame and classical music and inability to play tackle football. Those idiots were never really that great at it anyway. Who really wanted to roll around in the mud while fighting for a pigskin ball with another man anyway? He remembers the day when he picked all their lockers and placed little ticking time bombs of his own invention that exploded baby powder and glitter all over their street clothes and faces upon the swinging open of a locker door.

He did it to his own locker too and omitted the biggest fucktard in the class, just to frame him, because, really, he was big enough of a douchebag to do it.

They found out anyway.

He got the shit kicked out of him.

- Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ -

_'When the night is overcome, you may rise to find the sun/ Mornië utúlië...'_

He hears these lyrics pouring from the bedside and imagines himself in Elysian fields, sowing the seeds to a garden, and every bloom—every fucking bloom, and God is it beautiful—is the color of _his _eyes and hair and skin and lips and voice and soul and...

They're all white. "Omnichrome" as _he _would have said. "Omnichrome because the eyes really only see colors from wavelengths, and things only reflect the wavelengths they don't absorb. Really, all black things are rainbow-colored and white things are dark. That's why when you put so many colors of light together onto one spot, it turns white. It's like saying if we all concentrate on the vibrance of humanity and bottle it up into one place, everything will just be soft, white, pure. Makes sense, doesn't it?"

Not really. Not the way _he _wants it to. People and light are different. Two different waves of light can occupy the same space easily; two different people, no matter how hard and often they try, will always have their borders and edges. No matter how hard they try, two people can't become one.

So, no. Not really.

But _he's _still omnichrome.

And that means that nighttime only gets so much scarier.

There are no lights to protect you.

But _he's_ still omnichrome.

- Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ -

_'And who can say where the road goes /Where the day flows, only time?'_

The player by the bed doesn't stop; he doesn't stop it.

The NOW is like that time when they were twelve, the first week they met. The first time they met.

_He _was out riding _his _bike and stopped by his garage with _his _prettyperfect boyface and glowing, still chubby cheeks, like he was expected to intrinsically know how to hop on a bike and just _go._

He wanted to, really. His goodfornothing legs just didn't let him.

So instead of running away to a new land, they stayed together and _he_ taught him how to ride the shiny new red bike in the garage.

And afterward they traded.

Because he didn't really like the red and _he_ just wanted to see him happy. God knows why.

Nothing _he_ does every really makes much sense, but he smiles and nods anyway because he doesn't want to get left behind.

No one likes being left behind; no one likes being forgotten.

- Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ -

A summer day, but not a summer where there are beaches. No, this is a summer without sand. This is a...

An Eden summer.

He lets his eyes slide closed again and breathes deeply. No, he was in the wrong: this is spring. These notes, these black and white keys are Spring. They're spring without rain or too many clouds.

(You can never have a beautiful day without clouds; that's one thing _he's_ taught him.)

It's a black and white spring and all the gray areas have melted between the keyboard cracks, and every note is purposeful and even-tempered.

Everything's too clean.

For a split second, everything feels wrong and hollow.

Because it's too clean.

But everyone knows dirt and dust like to fill in the spaces, dirt and dust like to fill in the spaces where the gray area leaks away.

_He_ believes in the gray area; he doesn't.

It's just that simple sometimes.

(Or not.)

- Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ -

_'So tell me, darling, do you wish we'd fall in love?'_

_'All the time.'_

So does he... he thinks.

But it's three in the morning and he's pushing a twenty-six-hour day—he doesn't know what to wish for.

So maybe not?

The mattress shifts and the blanket slides off his ankle. His left foot is left exposed to the cold, and in his delusion, he chuckles.

Maybe he does. Ya know, that wishing thing? Maybe he does it too.

But no, no, _oh no._ Not because he really wishes for anything as silly and stupid as love—because love is for delusional idiots with dreams of grandeur and a humans without enough cognition to last them a dime's worth of time at a carnival.

Only idiots wish for love.

And so does _he_.

_'All the time.'_

- Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ -

The music finally stops playing, and its' four-ish in the morning. He doesn't know the exact time because he pulled the iHome plug out of the wall and the LED display blipped to darkness.

Behind him, the sheets rustle again.

How many times have those sheets rustled behind him? How many sleepovers did they play through? How many times did they go through the motions of being perfectly normal teenagers—oh right. Yes. haha—to...

This?

What _is_ "this"?

Maybe he should've asked himself before he started, before he let himself get carried away by the notion that even if they did go through with it, everything would all still remain the same.

What is _he_ to you?

"What... what am I to Demyx?"

He squeezes the blanket around his naked body, hoping to God—or perhaps Satan; he hears it's warm down there in damnation—that this... this _thing_ doesn't define him forever.

He's not that shy nerd kid who hung out with Demyx as a kid. He's not that quiet man in the sciences who only speaks to the heart of the sudent humanities department. He's not that guy whose full face you see only once a blue moon.

Even if that's all they see, that's _not what he __**is!**_

No, not anymore.

Because now that he's had himself touched by another man, that he's had another man inside him, and been inside another man—

Because now Demyx has touched him, that Demyx has been inside him, and been inside Demyx...

Now that he's felt that way all those stupid soft songs they love so much have lamented on about...

Now that he's felt safe,

Now that he's felt cared for,

Now that he's felt lusted after,

Now that he's felt filled,

Now that he's felt vulnerable,

Now that he's felt alone,

Now that he's felt unwanted,

Now that he's felt empty...

Now that he can feel.

He feels almost nothing outside this room this bed.

_"Because feeling nothing is still feeling something; you're feeling nothing, Zex."_

A warm hand slips around his waist and turns him to face the center of the bed. A just-as-naked body presses against his own and he feels the fine sandy hairs tuck into the space between his neck and the pillow. Lips touch to his collarbone.

"You feel cold, Dem." Let me warm you up.

It feels like home here sometimes.

It feels like home with _him_ always.

* * *

This is what happens when I write without thinking. Just let the words flow.

I think it's healthier this way.

_Bisous, Minikimii_


	8. Not Watching

So... yeah. I haven't written in a while and this piece has been done for weeks. Thought I'd finally tredge it up and post it... Enjoy!

* * *

**Not Watching**

The more time I spend staring at him in our World Religions class, the more I feel like it was just the way he's supposed to be. The way we're supposed to be. He will do things, and I'll watch from the shadows like a creepy-ass stalker.

Like how he tangles his fingers in the hair near the back of his neck when he writes, like the faster and harder he threads his digits through them, the deeper and stronger his thoughts get. Sometimes he presses the pads of his fingers against his scalp when he gets stuck, too. Like his head is porous and if he just pushed with a bit more pressure the thoughts will leak out and he can get back to writing them on the paper. Sometimes his fingers find their way to the front of his face where his long bangs are and he slides his hand into the purpley-silver sheet, like their paper tab inserts, and holds on for no reason.

I don't think lots of people have seem him like this though, because he only does it when he thinks he's alone. It shows off more of his face, and that makes him uncomfortable, I think.

Sometimes, if you look close enough, he likes to smirk a little when he one-ups the asshole teaching assistant that is Vexen Lyons. His not-hidden cheek just bumps up a little and catches the light like it's some sort of secret action. Like he's a spy with a mission to capture the shadow behind the sunlight and he can only do it with his cheekbones—and sparingly because if anyone else catches on like I have, he'll have to abort mission and go home.

It's so frustrating though that my creeper reflexes kick in when I'm in the dining hall and he walks in. I can't help but notice what he's eating. I note the types of food he has on his plate without meaning to the vegetable lasagna yesterday, the spicy garden pasta today and figure out (faster than I wish I did) that he's vegetarian. And that he apparently thinks chewing on vegetables to be enjoyable, because that one-up smirk thing happens every time he takes the first bite in to any meal. I've got two theories behind it:

1) He really takes the time to chew and enjoy his food because he has excellent and sensitive taste buds.

2) He's a vegetarian because he hates vegetables and eats them out of spite.

I still can't figure that one out.

Then there's that _thing_ he does whenever he's thinking. I didn't notice it at first at least, not consciously. It doesn't happen when he's writing; it doesn't happen when he's talking; it doesn't happen when he's eating. Those Modes have different types of habits that go with them. His thinking self is different, because everyone else thinks that he's always in thinking mode.

And he kind of is, but not _really_. Everything about him is kind-of-but-not-really, because his Thinking Mode isn't his analyzing self thinking, but the dreamy part of him thinking. I know this because I know what that feels like better than anyone, and I know how to see it on him better than anyone else ever will.

I know his eyes get misty, which is hard to see because they're really deep blue and always behind his hair curtain, but they do, and I know because when his eyes get misty, his lips part and his breathing changes. It's so small the changes that this Mode's details took me the longest to figure out. Everything about his system just goes on relaxed and autopilot. He gets in the Zone like I do when I'm playing guitar or writing a song... I just wish I knew what he thinks about when he's like that.

When I'm feeling particularly stupid, I like to pretend that he thinks about me the way I think about him. Or, sometimes I pretend that he doesn't so that I can imagine him being pleasantly surprised and thinking "why didn't I do that, too?" when he finds out and let's me experience more than watch.

I don't know.

It's so weird that I didn't notice him before, back in high school. Back then, I guess I was too far away, taking too many classes too far behind him, dropping out of orchestra because I wanted to be in the choir instead of watching him learn to make love to his cello strings in a way that no one else in the room knew how to now in our college ensemble.

It's so weird that I didn't notice him before, because I can barely remember how it was before watching him became addicting, and thinking about him before I went to sleep at night turned in to something I _had_ to do or else I wouldn't get any rest. How could he know that his silent grace was the one thing I—

And suddenly, his face fades in to view from the edge of my peripheral. My fingers tighten reflexively around the worn edges of the wooden table I'm eating and studying music theory simultaneously on.

"Salutations," his smooth, perfect voice greets. "You're Demyx, correct?"

I can barely breathe.

"Y-yes. And you're Zexion Corraza." He quirks an eyebrow and I clear my throat. "I was in your orchestra class in high school."

He touches a thoughtful pair of fingers to his lips. "I don't remember you."

"I dropped out after first quarter," I interrupt.

He smiles. "May I take a seat at your table? The others seem to be more interested in the inner workings of female anatomy than the anatomy of the staff and its notes."

"Hn." I sound like a grunting monkey of some sort.

Or maybe a lamb.

I don't know.

He's sitting next to me and I can't think straight.

But I swear I'm not obsessed with him.

At least, I'm not unless he starts talking to me on a regular basis. Maybe then, we'll have a problem.

* * *

It's not every day we get to play with a stalker!Demyx. It's mostly Zexy that's the creepy, stalker-y one.

_Bisous, Minikimii_


	9. An Attempt to Eat the Bathroom Soap

Summary: Zexion is a bad little boy.

* * *

**An Attempt to Eat the Bathroom Soap**

He didn't think he was a dirty child. No, of course not. Every night in the bath, he'd scrub his skin ohsoclean and make sure his hair was ohsolathered and teeth with ohsowhite and that his bits and crevices were ohsosmooth like his ohsorighteous conscience.

So, no: Zexion was not a dirty child, no no nonono...

Except tonight. Tonight. Tonight he was the dirtiest of all children there were in the world, because he had BADTHOUGHTS. His little head was filled with little wrongs and his little body was filled with little pressures and his little hands were clenched in little fists with little half-cut nails digging little half-moons in his little palms as his little voice made tiny screams, silent and sustained by the WRONGNESS of his little, bitty mind.

Screamscreamscream, little boy! His mindmother told him. YOU'RE SO WRONG.

Little boys like little girls with their ohsosoft faces and ohsospink cheeks and ohsolittlepink dresses, little white frilly socks, black buckle bootsies. Little boys and little girls like each other. Little boys and little boys play in the mud and roll around in the grass. Little boys and little boys don't kiss, Zexion, LITTLE BOYS AND LITTLE BOYS DON'T KISS.

But Zexion wanted to kiss little boys. In his littleboyhead with his little bad thoughts, Zexion wanted to kiss a little boy. And that little boy wanted to kiss him but mommy always said no no non ononononono... Mommy was always right, yes? Yes! YES! MOMMY WAS ALWAYS RIGHT. No little boys can't kiss little boys—

But little boy Demyx kissed little boy Zexion.

So bad so wrong so dirty so needing to be clean! Zexion doesn't want to be a dirty little boy, no no. Zexion wants to be clean, and wants to be perfect and wants to be a good little boy that thinks good little boy thoughts, Zexion wants to be good!

Zexion, Zexion, wash out your mouth. Your dirty little mouth is why you think dirty bad thoughts, little ickle Zexion. Darling, sweetie, Zexion, dearie, wash out your mouth. It's so dirty.

Soap makes you clean, yes, yes! Soap Is clean and good and not dirty and not wrong. Soap is good for you, it keeps the germs away. Make my braingerms go away, Soap! Please? Please? How how how! I want to know, Soap Make my brain germs go away.

Little ickle Zexion, dearie, eat the soap and it'll go away!

Eat the soap?

Eat the soap.

But it tastes funny.

Because your mouth is POISONED.

Poison?

Poisoned, Zexion. Bad little thoughts are for bad little boys, dirty, bad thoughts, Zexion.

I want to be clean. How do I clean my brain? My dirty brain?

Eat the soap, dearie.

So little ickle dearie Zexion took the soap in his little boy hands with his little boy grip and his little boy mouth, his dirty little ickle Zexion mouth, his head of bad boy thoughts about other bad boys doing strange things with their bad boy mouths took the soap and let it wash his bad boy brain clean.

Be clean, ickle Zexion. Be clean, little boy. Be a clean little boy who thinks good, clean thoughts. Eat the soap and clean your brain yes, the whole bar, no don't stop. You want to be a good boy, yes? Don't stop. You have to be clean.

But it tastes so gross. It hurts, mommy.

Because you're a bad little boy, Zexion sweetie dearies, Zexion. Only bad little boys eat soap.

So bad little boys can become good little boys?

Yes, Dearie. Now eat your soap.

Yes, mommy.

That's a good boy.

* * *

… I feel like there are some underlying mental issues you might think I'm in need of addressing here, but... I promise I'm alright! Yeah. This... just a brainchild inspired by Of Montreal's song titled "Dennis Hoffman Considers Eating the Bathroom Soap (and the song isn't even really about eating the soap...). Shit happens, like, frsrsly gaiz. ;]

_Bisous, Minikimii_


	10. Deliquesce

First time in a long time. I've changed.

* * *

**Deliquesce**

_v. (of organic matter) Become liquid, typically during decomposition._

Zexion can feel the warmth of his salty skin radiating through the air. He is deep cellos and mellow smiles. A bath in the ocean, powder sand, and a breeze through fingercracks.

Materialized out of the waves.

"Come play with me," he grins.

It's all lopsided and fifty-percent teeth. Pursed lips, peeking tongue. A waiting grapefruit kiss with beady hands on smalls of backs, equal parts sugar and sunlight. A drop rolls down the bridge of his nose, catching the light and refracting it across his visions, between blinks.

Blond eyelashes sweep together. Grains shuffle between toes dug into sand so quickly afterpuffs try for the sky. His head tips as knees meet cotton and penumbra.

Water off his chin drops onto a dry chest. He is matted and radiant; a glistening beauty of swirling impermanence.

He reaches up. He catches a headful of wet hair. Pulls down. Tastes fruit.

He is melting into everything. He is melting in.

It is quiescent.

It is transcendent.

* * *

Welcome back, everyone.

_Mini_


End file.
